Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens

Orlesian Corpses

Alistair had never seen so many Grey Wardens in one place. They looked quite magnificent, a living column of silver and blue, undulating across the land on their hardened mounts. These were no fancy Orlesian coursers, nor bold Ferelden chargers, but Anderfels horses, stout and sturdy, sure footed and determined. Also, they had wills of iron, and every time Alistair tried to mount his, it insisted on trying to tear off his arm in its mouth.
Weisshaupt's stables were the largest Alistair had ever seen- which had become something of a trend by now- row upon row of spacious holding areas, much too large to have been designed with horses's in mind. The stables were also multistoried, which the Warden had found surprising, until Tarja had informed him, with a knowing smile, that the building had been constructed to house Weisshaupt's griffins, in ages passed. Alistair wished he could have been around to see one of the magnificent beasts in the flesh, but they had ceased to exist in Ferelden long before he was even born.
It occurred to the warrior then that he had only ever seen a more than a few Wardens in one place at a time. That had been at Ostagar- not a particularly pleasant memory to behold, but Duncan had been there, as had Lyna. That had been one of the last times... Alistair's mood darkened as fast as a summer storm as he realised, of the Wardens present that day, all but one were now dead. He forced himself to stop there, unwilling to relive the deaths of those people he had held closest in the world, despite how short a time he had known them. They were his friends, better friends than he had ever made as a child- not that his childhood had been one particularly suited to forming friendships.
In an effort to take his mind from thoughts that were rapidly descending into morbid depression, Alistair cast brown eyes about him, trying to place their exact location on the map Tarja had shown him the previous evening.
The force was around five hundred strong, and though they were no more than the vanguard of the main force, another two thousand Wardens, such a large group did not move quickly. High Constable Zathwen, who had accompanied the forward force, had opted for a more direct route, straight South from Weisshaupt, through perilous mountain passes coated with thick coverings of fresh fallen snow. They had since descended from the peaks, with only a single accident in which several supplies had toppled off the narrow track, but no one had been injured, and Alistair was convinced that this was due to the steadfastly unflinching nature of their mounts. From the foothills, the Wardens had deviated from their course slightly to rest near Perendale, though the inhabitants did not appreciate such a large armed group camping nearby, and they moved on swiftly. That had been the day before, and now they rode upon solid ground, a wide, well maintained road between Ghislain and Montford. The journey had, so far, taken a little under a week, and as they reached flat lands and easy riding and began to make even better time, Alistair found himself impressed by the Wardens determination. Perhaps they had inherited the trait from their horses.
Glancing at the sky, the young man realised that dark was quickly setting in, and before long the procession would grind to a halt. He didn't look forward to the hassle of setting up and taking down the small three person tent whose pieces were currently split between his and Jenner's saddles. At least the Wardens had good ale.
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The men and women of Weisshaupt seemed to the Ferelden to be cold, hard people, nothing akin to Duncan or Riordan.
However, as in all groups, there were exceptions- and these were the people to whom Alistair radiated. Had he not been a part of the 'Hero of Ferelden''s effort to stem the Blight, he could have claimed to never have seen such a uniquely diverse group, but little could top a shapeshifting apostate working alongside a Circle mage, an ex-assassin and and an imprisoned Qunari. Aside from himself and Tarja- who, Alistair had come to realise, was known by practically everyone in Weisshaupt, and so could fit into practically any group amongst them- the first two people you would see upon approaching the small campfire were Bec and Jenner. The pair were uncannily similar for two people so utterly different. Jenner claimed to be Dalish, and he certainly had the right markings, but his manner was so at odds with the Dalish Alistair had met previously that he found it hard to compute. Where as most elves he had met were soft-spoken, everything about them serene and graceful, Jenner was raucous and jovial, derogatory jokes rolling off his tongue every time he opened his mouth. Apparently he had been a skilled hunter within his clan, able to fell a bear with a single arrow (according to himself), however that life had lacked in the excitement he sought, and he had been swamped in piety more than he could stomach. He had gladly traded that life for this.
Bec's story was a little different. He was fresh out of Orzammar, a 'surface dwarf' for no more than a year or so. He had picked a fight with some noble- when he was piss drunk, of course- and had landed himself in the Dead Legion trying to win back his honour in a glorious death. The squad he was with had encountered a Grey Warden, descended to the Deep Roads to answer her Calling, and Bec had figured that living twenty five years to fight darkspawn was better than living twenty five weeks to fight darkspawn. He had gotten himself conscripted and was sent over to the Anderfels the next day. The elf and the dwarf were closer to being brothers than any blood relatives Alistair had seen, what with the dispensing of rowdy jokes seemingly at random, and the constant cock waving (metaphorically so far, thank the Maker). He had to admit that, despite their noise and the fact that Bec was practically a criminal, it was good to have them around- without them the whole group would have seemed much darker.
The third member of their party incited first worry, then curiosity, then outright incredulouty upon sight. The figure sat upon a fallen tree trunk, hunched, head bowed, silent and solemn. It was so large that a person could be forgiven for wondering just how they had missed it in the beginning. However, the silver-grey skin, the hunched posture, all helped to keep the form from curious eyes in the dull light of the fire.
Vas had taken Alistair completely by surprise. After fighting the Archdemon, the young man could have said honestly he had seen everything there was to see. But a Qunari Warden was not something he had even considered plausible. That wasn't, however, the thing that had shocked Alistair the most. It was undoubtedly the fact that she was female. The warrior had never even heard of anyone who had seen a female Qunari, let alone seen one himself. Vas was quiet most of the time, but in one of the few conversations he had managed to hold with the huge woman, he had been told that, if a female showed enough skill at fighting, and showed a genuine interest in it, by the Qun they could be considered male, and be allowed to join the military. The Qunari was no long of that religion, though. 'Vas' was a title, shortened from 'Tal-Vashoth'. The woman refused to take a name, and still firmly believed in the Qun. She had apparently been expelled because of a mishap- one she refused to share the details of- which had involved a city official, a table, and a fish, and at that point Alistair had decided he probably didn't want to know anyway.
As though she felt his gaze across the fire, Vas raised her face a little, and the young man snapped away sharply. He found it hard to meet her strange violet eyes, and the horns that curled back from her brow didn't exactly help the image of cuddly friendliness. As a whole, the Qunari was an intimidating sight, and Alistair caught himself writing a mental check to stick to women under a head taller than him.
Tarja sat a little way off. In the flickering lick of the firelight, her face appeared tired and drawn. During the day, the mage put on the facade of carefree confidence, but Alistair knew she was concerned. Throughout the week, the warrior had stuck close by her side, faithful puppy style. He judged this the best way to learn what he could of Weisshaupt's Wardens- plus, since it turned out she was a Senior Warden, and one of very high regard, she got to know everything that went on. Word of the siege on Val Royeaux reached the vanguard by way of raven, each night when they stopped to set up camp, and with every report Tarja seemed to become more and more subdued. Glancing at her now, slim form partially in darkness, gazing deeply into the fire as though the flickering flames might hold the key to ending the horrific situation, Alistair was on the verge of asking her why this attack effected her so deeply. Perhaps it was the huge amount of people trapped within Orlais' capital by a host of nightmare creatures that bothered her, or maybe she was like this with all darkspawn attacks. If anyone felt so strongly, it was the Wardens, and you didn't progress far through their ranks by believing anything other than utter eradication of the darkspawn. Before the young warrior had a chance to act upon the thought, however, a man approached Tarja. They exchanged a few words, and the mage rose from the rock upon which she had been restlessly perched. Casting weary eyes about for Alistair, she gestured for him to join her, before making her way towards the High Constable's tent. The daily report must have finally arrived.
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Zathwen's command tent was of little difference to the rest of the Grey Warden tents; small, crafted from a variety of animal hides, built for shelter and warmth over comfort. The only visible difference was the flag flying from the main pole- a silver eagle, its wings outstretched, upon a field of royal blue. Alistair was glad they had managed to get an eagle; if they'd been left with a squid or a flower it wouldn't have inspired much valour in the troops. Oo, here come the Golden Squids. Scary.
The High Constable was visible before his tent, along with another man who looked to be a Chevalier. The two exchanged worried glances, and quickened their pace. Zathwen's eagle, Hetha, was in her usual spot upon his shoulder, and she gave a piercing shriek as the pair drew near, and glared at Alistair with vicious yellow eyes. Alistair stuck out his tongue.
"Tarja, Alistair," The elf greeted them, absently petting the great bird. It made a strange purring noise and fell quiet. "It's good that you're here. Since the message hasn't come by raven today, I'd say it's of some importance." He cast his eyes towards the messenger, who quailed under the steel gaze, and in that moment the young warrior knew it was true that dogs- and eagles- were very much like their masters. "Speak."
The man bowed, straightened, and began to reel off a list of things that had occurred within the last day, and thing that were too detailed to write down on paper. His memory was impressive, Alistair decided, but listening to accounts of how Hurlocks had breached the wall and swarmed the Alienage, killing dozens of elves before the Chevaliers managed to repel them, soon became depressing. The Warden tuned out, and instead began to look the man over more carefully. The fine cloth beneath his armour was damp in places. Sweat. Either he was had been riding hard, or he was very, very nervous.
"Also, we have lost all contact with a group of Chevaliers in the East. We can only assume they are dead. " With these words, the messenger fell silent, but his fingers were twitching, as though they wanted to be elsewhere- probably a lucky amulet or charm- and it felt like he had more to say. Zathwen obviously noticed it too, because he gestured for the man to continue. "And...?"
"And..." he continued, in a voice that was barely more than a frightened whisper. "And... The darkspawn have siege engines. "
"What?!" Zathwen roared, causing everyone, even Tarja, to jump in shock. Several Wardens in the area around them turned sharply to stare at the enraged High Constable, and several physically backed away. Hetha, equally surprised by the outburst, shrieked, and flapped over to land on Tarja's shoulder, giving her master a look of intense disapproval. "How?! How could the darkspawn gave siege equipment?" Zathwen yelled in the poor messenger's face, grabbing him none too gently. Alistair could almost see foam forming at the corners of his mouth. It would have been funny, had it not been so terrifying. The Orlesian, who sounded close to tears in fear (his clothes had acquired a new wet patch), cowered, and replied quickly, "They were being moved. Out of Val Royeaux, along a route we had been told would be empty. We thought if we could get them to a ridge behind the darkspawn and bombard them, we might be able to thin them out enough so that the Chevaliers could take care of them. B-But... It was crawling with them..."
Tarja, who by then had managed to regain some composure, gently separated the two, giving Zathwen a slight push. The High Constable continued to stare daggers, longswords, axes and lots of other pointy metal implements at the Chevalier as though the man was responsible, but backed away all the same. Another Warden moved quickly closer to lead the unfortunate Chevalier away to get a new horse for the return journey. And probably a clean set of clothes.
With the immediate threat of a full scale Warden-Chevalier conflict averted, the air seemed a little cooler about them, instead of the feeling you got before a huge storm broke out- though everyone was obviously deep in thought. High Constable Zathwen, who had reverted from rabid dog to simply rabid nug, stalked off towards his tent, and Tarja, clearly distressed by the news, followed suit. Even Hetha knew something was amiss, with the animal instinct that Alistair envied, and was producing peculiar croaking mewls from atop Tarja's shoulder. As the two Wardens entered the tent, she had to flap off and sit upon a pile to avoid having her head knocked in, which upset her even more. As the warrior moved to follow the Tarja and Zathwen, he expected the bird to attack him or do something equally evil, but Hetha just gave a mournful caw. Alistair almost felt obliged to stroke her, but he valued his fingers, and so he simply ducked through the hide flap.
Within, the twitched Wardens were already poring over a map Orlais, one of the few things they had brought along. They were deep in discussion, pointing out possible places the siege weapons could now be; where the darkspawn could use them again Val Royeaux for the greatest effect. Alistair was no tactician, and he simply listened as they formulated a plan- scouts would be sent immediately. They would begin scouting at dawn, when there was enough light to see, and by the time the full vanguard arrived, they should have located the missing catapults.
"The vanguard's vanguard." Alistair mused to himself. Both Tarja and Zathwen turned to give him a hard glare. "Right. Serious situation. Got it."
"We'll need to send small task forces to disable the catapults. They're the biggest threat right now. You'll need to be fast and efficient. Kill everything before they know you're there and fire." The High Constable informed Tarja, all but ignoring the tent's third occupant.
"Can I choose who I take?"
"You know the men better than I do."
Tarja didn't reply, simply turning to the young man now standing quietly by the tent's entrance.
"I suggest you get some sleep, Alistair. You have an important job."
"I do?"
"Yes. Staying alive long enough for you and I to have a serious conversation about duty and relationships." She wasn't smiling.
Alistair felt heat rush to face as he realised what she meant. Unsure quite how to respond to such a blunt statement, he gave an awkward salute, and muttered an almost unintelligible "Yes, ma'am," before quickly escaping from the close space, thankful, for once, for the dark that cloaked the fierce blush that raged upon his cheeks.